


One Ring to Bind Him

by Hummingbird1759



Series: Fear-verse [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brother Feels, Brotherhood, Depression, Drug Addiction, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Heavy Angst, Mycroft's Ring, Pre-A Study in Pink, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:50:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hummingbird1759/pseuds/Hummingbird1759
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why does Mycroft wear that ring on his right hand?  This story offers one explanation.  Rated T for references to drug use, discussion of suicide, and angst like whoa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cave Idus Martias [Beware the Ides of March]

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the year 2000, ten years before “A Study in Pink”. It’s set in the same universe as “Evolution of Fear”, “A Sociopath’s Fears” and “My Fears Relieved”, but you don’t need to have read those stories to understand this one. I don’t own these characters, Moffat/Gatiss and Arthur Conan Doyle do. Google Translate was used for the Latin titles, apologies for any goofs.
> 
> Warning: a character contemplates suicide in this story. If you find such things triggering, please don’t read any further.

It’s a drizzly morning in London, and Mycroft Holmes’ flat is not much warmer than the early spring air outside.  The junior diplomat is still sound asleep when the phone rings.  After the third ring, he realizes that the ringing is not part of his dream and plods across the room to his mobile phone.  He suspects that it’s work again, calling about one crisis or another.  Mycroft takes a moment to wonder why crises always occur at 6 AM on his day off and not, for example, when he’s in a meeting with the dull representative from Finland.

When he glances at the caller ID, he realizes that the caller is not the office, it’s Holmes Manor, and his heart accelerates.  _(Father would only phone me at this hour if it were a true emergency.)_   A thousand horrors run through Mycroft’s mind: his brother, Sherlock, has relapsed on cocaine or ran afoul of a drug dealer and is in intensive care; Sherlock has been arrested; Sherlock is dead.  Mycroft takes a deep breath as he answers the phone.

“Yes, Father?”

The voice on the other end takes the diplomat by surprise, both with its quavering and the fact that it isn’t his father’s voice.   “Young Mister Holmes, it’s Reginald.  I’ve bad news.  It’s your father, sir.”

Mycroft blinks. If the butler is calling, it must be very bad news indeed.  “What happened?”

Reginald chokes out, “He… he’s gone, sir.  In his sleep.”

“I’ll be right over.”

Mycroft calls his car and hastily gets dressed.   On the way over, he considers what needs to be done: someone must notify Sherlock if Reginald hasn’t already done so.  Father undoubtedly left funeral instructions, and Mycroft must find them and see to it that they are carried out.  Father had a will and Mycroft must tell Father’s solicitors to execute it. _(I must also ensure that Father is really dead.  He’s a notoriously heavy sleeper, and perhaps Reginald simply couldn’t wake him.  Perhaps I will arrive at the Manor to find Father drinking his tea and absorbed in the newspaper…)_

…but instead he arrives to find the ambulance already there and a police officer taking a statement from the butler.

Nodding to the butler, he dashes upstairs to the master bedroom.  Upon seeing Mycroft – while he may not have Father’s metabolism, he certainly has his face – the EMTs leave him alone with the body.  He studies Father for a few minutes.  The expression on his face is almost peaceful, and Mycroft can’t help but wonder at how out-of-character it seems. 

Mycroft whispers, “Fare thee well, Father,” before silently departing.

After the EMTs and the police leave, Mycroft lets himself into Father’s study and finds his funeral instructions.  _(Focus on the work, not the emotion.)_   Mycroft makes a brief phone call to the church Father requested and arranges a date and time for the service.

Next, he pulls the butler aside.  “Has anyone told Sherlock?”

“No, sir.  I tried calling the number in your father’s address book, but they said he no longer lived there.”

Mycroft lets out a sound that’s halfway between a sigh and a snarl.   _(Of course Sherlock didn’t give him his new address or phone number.  Father paid for his posh drug rehab, his mobile, and his new clothes, and the prat can’t even say thank you!)_ Brows furrowed, Mycroft picks up his mobile to ring Sherlock. 

After a few rings, Sherlock picks up and yawns, “Hello, brother.  Is this about Father again?”

“Yes-”

“I’m bloody tired of hearing that he wants to see me.  Isn’t he above all that sentiment?”

“Sherlock-”

“He thinks because he suddenly deigns to forgive my sins, I should forgive his and come home?  Slay the fatted calf for the Prodigal Son and-”

_“Enough, Sherlock!”_   Mycroft bellows, and the younger man is momentarily cowed.  “Father died in his sleep last night. The funeral will be Tuesday, 10 AM at St. Vincent’s.  I hope you can come!”

The elder Holmes punches the end call button in the way that he wishes he could punch his brother’s face.  “I need some air,” he grumbles, and snatching his coat and umbrella, stalks out the back door. 


	2. A Ambulans Umbra [A Walking Shadow]

Once outside, Mycroft turns up his collar against the chill.  The rain has stopped but the grounds are shrouded in mist and everything is quiet.  It’s perfect weather for brooding.  Mycroft almost wishes that he smoked; it seems appropriate to do so just now.

Without a destination in mind, Mycroft begins ambling around the property.  The Manor has been in his family for generations, and he realizes with a start that it now belongs to him.  He’ll move back in, of course, but when he does, he’ll sleep in the master bedroom instead of his childhood bedroom.  People have long been needling Mycroft to marry and have children, and once he takes possession of the Manor, the pressure will intensify.  He’s thirty years old and has never married, which is a bit odd even for a Holmes.

_“Have you anyone, er, special, son?”_

_It was all he could do not to roll his eyes.  “Not this again, Father.”_

_“Don’t take that tone with me.  It is not good for a man to be alone, and if our family name is to continue, there must be a legitimate heir…”_

As if Father wasn’t bad enough, his diplomatic colleagues occasionally got in on the act.  One would think diplomats would have a better sense of propriety, but on the rare days when there were no foreigners in the office, rules could be broken.

_His supervisor asked, “Mycroft, are you attending the dinner with the representative from Sweden?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“You’re welcome to bring a date, you know.”  After an awkward pause, the older man added, “That is, Sweden is a very progressive country, and er, it truly wouldn’t matter who your date was…”_

_Mycroft folded his hands on top of his desk.  “If I find anyone who wishes to bring a same-sex date, I will be sure to pass the message along to that person.  I, however, shall attend the dinner solo.”_

He later found out that his supervisor had a wager going with some of the lads at MI6 – evidently Mycroft’s supervisor had bet them a bottle of Talisker that Mycroft would bring a male date to the dinner if given permission do so.  Mycroft was alternately exasperated that people still think a bachelor his age must be gay and pleased with himself for doing such a good job of misleading his supervisor.

Trudging through the wet grass, Mycroft comes upon his and Sherlock’s derelict tree house.  He last entered it eight years ago, when he had to convince teenaged Sherlock to go see Mummy on her deathbed.   Instead of Mummy, however, it’s his last conversation with Father that comes to mind.  The two men last saw each other a month ago, just before Sherlock completed rehab.  Father did his best to keep a stiff upper lip, but one glance told Mycroft that the older man’s health was declining rapidly.

_Father said, “When he is discharged, tell him to come home.  I have much to say to him.”  He paused, and taking a deep breath added, “I am much like Edward VIII.  Unlike him, there was no George VI to carry on for me after I abdicated. I’m sorry.”_

_“I shall tell him, Father.”_

All the pieces of the story come together in Mycroft's mind, and he groans as he rests his forehead against the trunk of the tree.  Father had hoped that Mycroft would bring Sherlock round to see him once more, just as he’d done for Mummy.

“I’m sorry, Father.  I failed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from Macbeth: “Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is no more.” 
> 
> Edward VIII abdicated the British throne in 1936. George VI, his successor, led Great Britain through World War II. Father comparing himself to Edward is his way of admitting failure.


	3. Quis Praeteritum Est Prologo [What's Past is Prologue]

Late that night, Mycroft finds himself in Father’s study, attempting to write his obituary.  It’s a struggle, but he refuses to give in.  Everyone always said Mycroft was his father’s son; surely he has something to say about the man!  Thus far, however, all he’s managed is: 

_Sigur Holmes_

_Sigur Holmes, diplomatic attaché, died peacefully in his sleep on March 15, 2000.  He was born on January 10, 1935 and was preceded in death by his parents, Gertrude and Thaddeus; wife Amelia; and brother Sherrinford.  He is survived by his two sons, Mycroft and Sherlock._

Obituaries often talk about the deceased’s hobbies or career or their love of their family.   Mycroft racks his memory for times he saw Father doing anything besides working and the best he can do is Father teaching him to play chess.  The games petered out after Sherlock became old enough to interrupt and stopped completely after Mycroft went to boarding school.  He can’t write about Father’s work since much of it was classified and will likely remain so for years to come.   And Mycroft certainly can’t say that Father was a family man!  He favoured his elder son and alienated the younger.  _(I doubt the two of them even spoke after Sherlock returned from America last fall, and they certainly didn’t speak in the years he was gone.)_   Father ensured that Mummy was taken care of during her illness and spared no expense in her treatment, but he was away so frequently it doesn’t seem right to say that he was a devoted husband.  _(Why did two people as different as they marry in the first place?  It wasn’t money; they were both financially well off.  And Mummy would never have married a man who didn’t love her, but the idea of Father in love is as ludicrous as the idea of Prince Charles as a circus clown.)_

Frustrated, he begins rummaging through Father’s desk.  There must be something in here he can use, something he can tell the world about Father.  _(Damn it, sixty-five years cannot be reduced to just three sentences.)_ A nagging voice in Mycroft’s head tells him that someday, this might be all anyone can say about his life.  He pushes the thought out of his mind.

The first two drawers he searches reveal naught but office supplies and work-related documents.  In third drawer, he finds a battered manila envelope full of something weightier than paper.  Mycroft gently opens of the envelope and discovers that it’s full of photographs.  Going by the state of the envelope, Father must have looked at these photos frequently.  Slowly, Mycroft shuffles through the photos, the oldest of which date from the 1960s.  There are a few shots of Mummy playing violin, then Mummy graduating from the Royal College of Music.  Then there are photos of Mummy playing with the London Symphony Orchestra and Mummy laughing with her fellow violinists.  The next picture causes Mycroft’s jaw to drop: it’s Mummy and Father at a costume party, with Mummy as Moneypenny and Father as James Bond.  Father has his arm around her and he is looking into her eyes and smiling – not a forced smile, but a genuine grin.  He reminds Mycroft of Sherlock after he’s solved a puzzle.

More happy times follow: Mummy and Father on their honeymoon, dancing at a cousin’s wedding, and their first Christmas party at Holmes Manor.  Then there’s a photo from New Year’s 1970: Mummy is pregnant with Mycroft, and somehow she manages to look glamourous with a stomach the size of a beach ball.  Mycroft can almost hear his brother saying, “She looks so much like you!”  _(Perhaps I won’t show this one to Sherlock.)_

Mycroft figures the photographs will end with his birth, but he’s mistaken: Father has a half-dozen pictures of both boys as small children, and then, in its own cellophane sleeve, a photo taken at Christmas 1980.  Mummy and Mycroft sit next to the tree playing a board game. Father is in his favourite chair, reading to three-year-old Sherlock, who is curled up in his lap. On the back of the photo, Father wrote, “As it should be” with the decisive strokes of a young man’s handwriting.  _(Uncle Sherrinford must have taken this picture; I recall he spent his last Christmas with us.)_

Somehow, the pictures just make him feel worse.  After everything that’s gone wrong with this family, even the happy memories seem bleak.  Mycroft never truly forgot the smiling man Father used to be; he simply hid those files in a seldom-visited corner of his Mind Palace.  He knows that the man in these pictures isn’t merely an idealized version of Father.  He also knows that Father’s smile is ancient history to him and completely unknown to his brother.


	4. Verba Non Suppetent [A Loss For Words]

Taking care to keep the photos in the same order, Mycroft gently places them back in the envelope and returns the envelope to the drawer.  He adds a few lines to the obituary describing Father as a man who loved his country and his family.  _(Clearly, he loved us at one time.)_   Sherlock will think him a liar, but right now he doesn’t give a tinker’s cuss what Sherlock thinks.  Mycroft sends the obituary to the newspapers, and noticing the lateness of the hour, decides to get some sleep.

The next few days pass in a blur.  Mycroft notifies Father’s solicitors of his death and arranges a time for the will to be read.  As Holmes Manor is now his, he prepares to put his London flat on the market; however he won’t officially do so until the will is read.  ( _One mustn’t appear greedy, after all.)_  

And then there’s the matter of Father’s eulogy.  _(As if writing his obituary wasn’t difficult enough.)_  Mycroft wishes he could delegate this to someone else, but he has no choice.  Sherlock had a stormy relationship with Father before he moved out of the Manor and no relationship with him after; he would never speak for Father.  Everyone else in Father’s immediate family is deceased.  The only person who can perform this task is Mycroft, and he resolves to carry it out to the best of his ability.

The question looms: which Sigur should he speak about?  The happy man Mummy fell in love with, who read to Sherlock and taught Mycroft to play chess?  Or the shadow of a man who spent most of his time in his study, who foisted many of his parenting responsibilities onto Mycroft, who hid behind a wall of work after Mummy’s cancer recurred?  Presenting the deceased in a negative light simply isn’t done at a eulogy, and yet, Mycroft has so few happy memories of Sigur that he could never make an entire speech out of them.  Nor does he want to; ignoring the Sigur of later years is tantamount to lying.

Mycroft decides that he might as well keep the eulogy brief; Father never approved of flowery displays of sentiment anyway (at least, not when Mycroft knew him).   After writing and rewriting the same sentences what must have been a hundred times, Mycroft finally comes up with an acceptable eulogy.

_My father was not an expressive man, nor an outspoken one.  Much of what went on in his mind was and forever shall remain a mystery to me.  He was never very adept at articulating his feelings for his sons, or his wife, or Queen and Country.  But while he seldom spoke of how he felt, he demonstrated his feelings daily.  His tireless work for the British government was borne both of patriotism and a desire to provide a good living and a good example for my brother and me.  During our mother’s long illness, he did not complain or fret.  He kept calm and did what he saw as his duty: he carried on at work and threw every resource he had into her treatment.  Indeed, his dedication to duty inspired me to follow in his footsteps.  If I have one regret, it is that I never told him so._

There.  Whether he’s written a half-truth or a well-dressed lie, Mycroft isn’t sure, but it will have to do.  He checks his pocketwatch and sees that it’s 1 AM.  The funeral is in nine hours; he supposes he should go to bed.


	5. Verbum Vomitum [Word Vomit]

Father’s funeral occurs on yet another cold, damp day.  The small church is nearly full; Mycroft wonders if Father chose it so that the crowd would appear larger.  During the brief eulogy, the younger brother stares daggers at the elder.  After the service, Mycroft and Sherlock make up the receiving line and accept the murmured condolences of the guests.  The brothers barely give each other a sidelong glance.

Sherlock is completely stone-faced as the casket is lowered into the ground.   Mycroft finds himself seething as he looks at his brother.   _(All he wanted was to see you one time, Sherlock.  One more bloody trip to the Manor!  Would it have killed you?  He supported you financially until the day he died!  After everything you put him through, couldn’t you do your duty to him just once?)_

Mycroft turns his gaze from the casket to Sherlock and before he can stop himself, the words, “I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about procrastination,” fall out of his mouth.

Sherlock gives him a look that would incinerate a glacier and storms off.   _(Dear God, why did I say such a foolish thing?)_   Mycroft knows exactly where Sherlock is headed and he gives chase in the hopes of apologizing before his brother does something incredibly stupid.  _(One month out of rehab and he’s going to relapse already.  What is he thinking?)_   Unfortunately, the sedentary, overweight diplomat is no match for the fleet-footed wannabe detective.  Sherlock outdoes him in both speed and ability to blend in.   Within minutes, the elder Holmes is left panting and with no sign of his brother.  He sinks into a bench, defeated, and tries to get his breathing under control before someone notices him.

Mycroft’s heart is pounding, every breath sears his lungs, and he’s sweating profusely.  He almost feels like he’s dying, and isn’t sure if it’s from exertion or embarrassment.   Meanwhile, his brother, never one to do things halfway, is probably about to ingest a large amount of cocaine.  _(If we both survive the week, it will be a miracle.)_


	6. Canis Niger [Black Dog]

Mycroft is disappointed but not surprised to be the only person in attendance when Father’s will is read.  At least he knows that Sherlock is safe.  After 35 hours and 43 minutes of fervent searching, he finally found his brother on CCTV – camping under a bridge, of all places. He’s asked his new assistant to keep an eye on Sherlock.  His brother may never return to the Manor, but perhaps he can at least keep Sherlock out of grave danger.  _(I promised Mummy I would look after him, and I shall not disappoint her.)_

Never one to break with tradition, Father left Holmes Manor to Mycroft.  The bulk of Father’s fortune goes to Sherlock’s trust fund, and he requests that the young man use the money to “put his considerable talents to good use, as I know that he is able.”  Father adds that if Sherlock is using drugs or otherwise unable to manage the trust fund, Mycroft is to take charge of it until such time as Sherlock is capable of doing so.

The day after the funeral, Mycroft returns to work and his superior sends him to Finland for a week.  His superior apologises profusely for the timing of the trip, but Mycroft finds it a welcome distraction.  Upon his return to London, he goes to the Manor, where as instructed, the servants have moved in all of his things.  Reginald greets him when he arrives and fetches him a brandy.

“Sir, while we were cleaning out the master bedroom we found some things that we thought you might want.  Would you like to see them tonight, or shall I wait until the morning?”

“Now is fine, Reginald.”

The butler walks into the next room and returns with a box roughly 30 cm deep, 30 cm wide, and half again as long and places it on the table in front of Mycroft.  “These are your father’s diaries, sir.  Would you like to keep them?”

Mycroft peers into the box and sees that it’s nearly full of small, leather-bound books.   _(Father kept a diary?  How did neither Sherlock nor I know this?)_ “How far back do these go?”

Reginald thinks for a moment and then says, “Almost twenty years, sir.  His brother’s death was rather a difficult time and your mother thought keeping a diary might help him.”

 _(Twenty_ years _?  But then, we never were allowed in his study...)_ If there’s one thing Mycroft can’t tolerate, it’s someone keeping a secret from him, and the fact that Father kept this secret for nearly two decades makes it all the more tantalizing.  Normally, reading someone else’s diary would be an invasion of privacy, but he supposes that privacy rights don't apply to the dead.

“Thank you, Reginald, I shall be happy to keep these.  Was there anything else?”

“Just this, sir.”  The butler places a small, velvet-covered box on the table.  The edges are worn and it’s clearly been opened and closed regularly.

Mycroft opens the box and finds Father’s wedding ring.  He studies it without removing it from the box.  _(A few small scratches, as one would expect given its age.  Recently cleaned, so he didn’t merely wear it out of habit.  Father, you sentimental old dog.)_   

“He didn’t leave specific instructions for it, sir, but since your mother left her wedding ring to whichever of her sons married first, we thought perhaps his ring should stay in the family too.”

The diplomat nods.  “Agreed.  Thank you very much, Reginald.  It’s late; perhaps we should get some sleep.” 

Mycroft places the ring box in his pocket, hoists the box of diaries and walks upstairs.  He starts reading Father’s diaries that very night and devours them all over the course of the next few weeks.  To say it’s an eye-opening experience is an understatement; even on the first entry, Father’s diary pulls no punches.

_20 May 1981_

_It’s been eight weeks since my brother Sherrinford was killed in a car crash.  I scarcely sleep, I can barely eat, and much as I care for my boys, it’s difficult to face them these days.  But the world continues to turn, and whether I like it or not, I must continue turning as well._

_Amelia proposed that I begin writing about my sadness.  She suggested that it might help to get this down on paper even if we can’t discuss it.  I remain a bit sceptical, but things cannot continue as they are._

_Sherrinford was six years my junior, and it is patently unfair that he is gone and I am still alive.  Fate has played a most cruel joke on us._

Mycroft was eleven years old when Sherrinford died and he remembers that day vividly.  He’d come home from school to find his usually upbeat mother weeping on the couch.  Sherlock, who at age four was always underfoot and begging for attention, was strangely nowhere to be seen.

* * *

_Mycroft walked up to the couch and asked, “Mummy, what’s wrong?”_

_Gathering the boy into her arms, she said, “It’s your Uncle Sherrinford, love.  He was killed by a drunk driver earlier today.  Your father just came home from identifying the body.”_

_Despite himself, Mycroft began crying._

_Father stomped into the living room and clipped him round the ears, shouting, “Stop that!  Only girls and cowards cry!”_

_With that, Father stormed upstairs.  Mummy kissed the top of Mycroft’s head and told him not to worry, Father was just upset.  Then she rushed upstairs in search of her husband._

_A curly-haired little boy poked his head around the corner.  “What’s going on?”_

_Mycroft decided to get his brother out of Father’s way before either of them got in more trouble.  He took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and said,  “Go play outside, Sherlock.  I’ll explain later.”_

* * *

At Sherrinford’s funeral, Father delivered the eulogy and was the picture of stoicism.  He hadn’t cried, or if he had, he’d done so when his sons couldn’t see.  When asked if he was all right, Father simply told people, “Amelia’s doing enough crying for both of us.”

After the funeral, Father never spoke of Sherrinford again.

Father wrote regularly through 1981 and 1982 and gradually became more functional, although even he recognized he was not the man he’d been before.

_12 August 1982_

_Today would have been Sherrinford’s forty-first birthday.   I cannot help but wonder about all that he was denied.  What would he be doing if he still lived?  Would he have finally wedded Lillian?  Would they have children?  Sherrinford and I both got on well with our cousins when we were young; cousins are a joy that my sons will never know._

_And yet, the Earth moves.  Things have seemed a bit brighter lately, as they often do in summer. I was able to play chess with Mycroft last week for the first time since Sherrinford’s death.  I’d been telling the boy that I was too busy to play, but I think he suspected the real reason.  He notices everything and his brother isn’t far behind in observation.  It does my heart good to see that my sons will be able to carry on the Holmes tradition._

_The black dog continues to chase me, but he is no longer nipping at my heels._

The entries decreased in frequency in 1983 and 1984.  Father went six months without writing, and when Mycroft sees that the next entry is from the summer of 1985, his breath hitches.  Things only go downhill from here.

_29 July 1985_

_My greatest fear has been confirmed: Amelia has breast cancer.  I did not think that anything could be harder than losing Sherrinford, and now, I am faced with the prospect of something far worse.  Amelia is the other half of my heart.  Were she to die, I might as well jump into the grave alongside her._

Mycroft’s stomach turns when he reads this.  Jumping into Mummy’s grave is essentially what Father did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from Winston Churchill’s description of his depression – “my black dog.” Much as I’d like to include Father’s entire diary, nineteen years of diary entries would take me roughly nineteen years to write. The entries shown in this story are the ones that resonate most with Mycroft.


	7. Peccata Patris [Sins of the Father]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opinions in Father's diary are his and most definitely NOT my own.

 

Mycroft feels compelled to continue reading Father’s diaries, despite the fact that he knows how the story will end and despite the fact that Father’s behaviour becomes more infuriating when he knows the reason for it.

_25 December 1985_

_Christmas was going well until Sherlock bolted off to Oxford Street alone and gave us all a fright.  Evidently he wanted to see the LEDs.  Why he couldn’t have waited until tomorrow, I’ll never know; the lights look the same on the 26 th as they do on the 25th.  Next, the boy will tell me he still believes in Father Christmas…_

_21 April 1986_

_Summoned to another parent-teacher conference for Sherlock.  Evidently he called his teacher a sadistic twat.   I must say that while I disapprove of his choice of words, by all accounts they are accurate.  I shall have to speak to the headmaster when I return from Poland.  In the meantime, Mycroft will go to the conference in my stead._

_13 September 1986_

_I will never understand Sherlock.  Why can’t he just behave?  Why does he always have to make everything so bloody difficult?  Perhaps his brother can talk some sense into him after he attends the next parent-teacher conference._

_12 February 1987_

_Sending Mycroft to Sherlock’s school yet again.  I volunteered for a trip to Czechoslovakia so that I wouldn’t have to attend this meeting.  Nothing I do seems to get through to that boy and I’m at a loss.  It’s bad enough watching Amelia waste away!  Why must Sherlock compound my troubles by breaking every rule in the book?  And why can’t Mycroft get through to him?_

Mycroft snarls under his breath.  He recalls those years all too well; not many teenage boys assist in parenting their younger brothers.  He wonders if Sigur ever considered the effect this had on him.  Did he really think that his sixteen-year-old son was up to the challenge of raising Sherlock Holmes?  Did he forget that both of his sons needed him?

* * *

 

_Mrs. Jenkins barely came up to Mycroft’s shoulders, but somehow she found a way to look down her nose at the awkward teenager._

_“This is supposed to be a_ parent _-teacher conference,” she sniffed._

_Squaring his shoulders, Mycroft calmly replied, “My father is abroad on business and my mother is recovering from surgery.  We’ve no other family, so my parents have authorised me to attend the meeting in their place.”_

_“Very well then,_ Master _Holmes.  Would you care to explain where your brother learned such awful language, and why no one has told him that it is not acceptable in polite society?”_

* * *

 

Trying to earn the respect of Sherlock’s teachers was just the beginning.  Once Mycroft came home, he had to find a way to tell Mummy everything she needed to know without upsetting her too much.  The doctors said that stress wasn’t good for her, and unlike Sherlock, Mycroft did his best to heed that advice.

* * *

_Mycroft tapped on the door of the master bedroom.  When he heard a muffled greeting, he walked in.  Mummy lay on the bed, head wrapped in a scarf and a mask over her face – the doctors encouraged her to wear it to avoid germs.  Mycroft pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed._

_“How did it go?”_

_Mycroft thought for a moment.  The teacher had nearly refused to meet with him, and when she finally relented, she had said, “Your brother must make drastic improvements to both his attitude and his grades or he shall face expulsion!”_

_There was no way he could tell Mummy that.  Instead, he told her, “She said that Sherlock is one of the brightest students she’s ever had, but his marks could be better and he needs to show a bit more respect.”_

_Mummy sighed and shook her head in fond exasperation.  “I shall have your father give him a talking-to when he comes home.  Go to bed, love.  I know you must make an early start tomorrow.  And thank you.”_

* * *

 

The first half-truth had been the hardest; after that, the tightrope act of enough information without too much stress became easier.  When there was something significant, he knew to leave a message with Father’s secretary.  He’d hated the whole situation – the teachers talking down to him, Sherlock not taking him seriously, missing out on activities with his classmates, the frantic rush to get all his schoolwork done before he had to return to boarding school in the morning.  He didn’t complain because he saw looking after Sherlock as his job, a job he did because he thought Father was incapable.  Learning that Father shirked his duties is a betrayal.  _(I wish he were still alive so that I could give him what for!)_

Nonetheless, the diplomat keeps reading.  _(This must be what it’s like to watch soap operas.  It’s so bloody sad and frustrating and predictable, and yet, I can’t seem to stop.)_   There’s another large gap in diary entries in 1988 – the year that they thought Mummy’s cancer was cured – but entries resume the following year.

_25 April 1989_

_Amelia’s cancer has returned with a vengeance.  The doctors say she has little more than a year.  She is more determined than ever to fight and believes that she will see Mycroft graduate Oxford and Sherlock finish at Harrow.  I find it difficult to believe that she will recover, but the alternative is a horror I can scarcely contemplate.  I cannot burden my sons with such knowledge, although the elder has undoubtedly worked it out._

_28 April 1990_

_Sherlock has been stomping about in a huff lately.  Amelia says he’s annoyed that I missed another of his violin recitals.  Doesn’t the boy see what’s going on in the world these days?  The Warsaw Pact is falling, the Soviet Union is in tatters, and he’s worried about not getting enough attention.  Cosmic changes are happening in Europe, and I must attend to them. One day, he shall understand that._

_21 July 1991_

_I accompanied Amelia to the doctor today.  He has one last-ditch plan for her treatment, and even he admits that this will not save her life; at best it will buy her more time.  Amelia, bless her, somehow remains optimistic.  She shall need to, as Sherlock remains blissfully unaware of her dire straits.  We agreed that we cannot tell him how sick she really is.  Hope is the only thing the boy has left, and she will not take it from him.  Sherlock is very troubled and knowing that his mother will only see one more Christmas would further compound his difficulties._

Mycroft grinds his teeth.  Perhaps it wouldn’t have been prudent to tell young Sherlock everything immediately, but he will never understand why their parents felt they needed to keep the boy in the dark as long as they did.  Sherlock had to find out about Mummy in the worst way possible.

* * *

_Two days after Christmas, Mycroft awoke in the middle of the night due to an uncomfortably full bladder.  When he finished in the loo, he noticed a light at the other end of the hall.  The light came from Father’s study, but Father was overseas and Mummy was in hospital. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the college student padded down the hall to investigate._

_When Mycroft reached the doorway, he saw his brother in the study reading a stack of papers.  He yawned, “What are you doing?”_

_Sherlock gave him a venomous glare, and Mycroft realized exactly which papers his brother read.  “I can explain,” he stammered._

_The teen shoved the papers at Mycroft and snarled, “Explain? Is that what they call_ lying _at Oxford these days?”_

_Sherlock stormed off, leaving his brother to clean up the mess.  Mycroft sank to the floor, tasting failure for the first time._

* * *

 

The diplomat sighs.  It’s no wonder he and Sherlock became so adept at deduction; there was no other way to get information in their family.  In fact, Father probably would have hidden the truth from both of his sons if he thought he could get away with it.  Mycroft flips ahead to see if Father noticed Sherlock’s break-in.

_2 January 1992_

_It appears that Sherlock broke into my study while I was in Saudi Arabia.  It must have been Sherlock; Mycroft has never been one to break the rules.  It seems my files were disturbed and then put back in their proper places.  Nothing is missing, however.  I can’t imagine what he wanted, and it appears I’ve not got enough evidence to confront him.  Even if I did, I’m not sure that I would.  I want Amelia’s few remaining days to be happy ones._

_It’s just as well.  I’ve been so ineffective as a parent that I doubt Sherlock would listen to me even if I did try to talk with him.  Perhaps he’s better off without my interference.  Perhaps everyone is._

Updates cease for a few months, and the hair on the back of Mycroft’s neck stands up when he sees the date of the next entry.  This is when the Holmes family begins circling the drain.

_3 March 1992_

_Amelia died today.  I wonder how it’s possible that I still live.  It is infinitely worse than Sherrinford’s death.  When he died, there was searing agony in my chest; now, I wonder if I have the ability to feel anything at all.  The world is only blackness without her.  For months, I’ve been wondering if I would die with her.  Now, she is gone and I would like nothing more than to join her… but were I to hasten our reunion, she would be disappointed in me._

At first, Mycroft thinks that Father’s wish for death is just a response to the acute trauma of Mummy’s death.  However, as he reads on, the diary gets progressively more disturbing.

_9 May 1992_

_Returned home from work today to hear violin music upstairs.  Someone was playing Amelia’s favourite song, and for a moment I thought it was she.  When I saw Sherlock playing, I was nauseated.  How could I be so foolish as to forget that my wife is dead?_

_As I walked past his room, I muttered that Sherlock isn’t half the musician his mother was.  Foolish words that I did not intend to say, nor for him to hear.  If looks could kill, the boy would be an orphan right now.  Perhaps he’d be better off that way._

Mycroft curses under his breath.  Mummy had an extraordinary musical talent, and when she was healthy, the sound of her violin filled the Manor.   As a child, he was sometimes jealous that his brother inherited her abilities but he did not.  He often wondered why Sherlock hadn’t chosen music for a career, and now the reason for that is achingly apparent.  If Father hadn’t said a horrible thing at the most horrible time, Sherlock might not be homeless right now.  But for this, Sherlock could be safe…

He puts the book down and pours himself another brandy.  As he drinks, he stares out the window and composes the lecture he’d like to give Father right now.   It’s a masterpiece, and the only flaw is that there is no one to hear it.  His head buzzing from drink and fatigue, the diplomat goes to bed.

Mycroft is not a man who leaves a project unfinished.  He picks up Father’s diaries again the following night.  

_6 October 1992_

_The silence at this house is deafening with the boys away at school.  Even the servants barely speak.  Sometimes I feel that the household would be better off without me.  Perhaps my father’s rifles are still here. Perhaps Amelia’s painkillers are still here… Oh, Amelia.  You would be so angry at me for even thinking this way.  To say nothing of what my colleagues would say, the tarnish it would bring to our family name._

_12 March 1993_

_Sherlock just returned on a holiday from school.  He acts as though I’m not even here.  I suppose for much of his life, I haven’t been.  I wonder: if I were permanently gone, would things be better or worse for him?  Worse, definitely.  People would talk, people would think that if I did such a cowardly thing, my sons are also cowards._

_29 December 1993_

_My doctor’s been trying to tell me that something is wrong with a man who can’t seem to enjoy anything. “There are drugs,” he says, as if I would ever take a mind-altering medication.   Such things are for the weak.  I shall not have that shame brought on my family!  There is nothing wrong with me.  Rather, the fault lies with this cruel world._

_1 July 1994_

_Sherlock is home on summer holidays.  He spends most of his time in his bedroom, and God only knows what he’s up to.  He certainly won’t talk to me.  Not that I deserve his notice, or his brother’s.  They’d be better off without me, I know; I just can’t bear to let their mother down.  I told her I would carry on.  I can’t have anyone thinking ill of our family._

Mycroft buries his head in his hands.   Why hadn’t he seen how bad things really were?


	8. Imponebatur in Filius [Imposed on the Son]

As upsetting as Father’s suicidal thoughts are, Mycroft feels duty-bound to keep reading.  If Father really wanted his diaries to remain a secret, he’d have either burned them himself or left instructions for Reginald to burn them.  Instead, he left the diaries whole and in a place where they’d be found and given to his elder son, who he knew would read them.  _(What is he trying to tell me?)_

_1 July 1997_

_Sherlock is in America.  I’ve no idea why he went there, only that he left two days ago without saying goodbye.  I couldn’t have him back at the Manor, not after he dropped out.  People would talk if he returned.  Since he is not here, I can at least keep up the fiction of him being in university…_

_I suppose it is for the best that he’s now on the other side of the ocean.  My influence, such as it was, surely has not done the boy any good.  He is undoubtedly better off away from me._

_25 December 1998_

_Another Christmas without Sherlock.  Mycroft and I do not speak of him.  I can only assume that he’s heard nothing from his brother.  I miss Sherlock, more than I thought I would given how little we spoke when he was here.  I have no one to be angry with, no one to be a reminder of Amelia or of all the ways in which I have failed.   I hope he is happy; I am sure that he is, without me._

_29 October 1999_

_Mycroft rang today to let me know that Sherlock is returning home.  I am equal parts relieved, worried, and proud.  Relieved that the boy is safe.  Worried that he is within reach of my toxic influence once again.  Proud because of the newspaper article Mycroft e-mailed me when he found where Sherlock has been for the last two years.  My younger son helped solve three murders._

_24 January 2000_

_Visited the doctor today and received bad news.  Metastatic lung cancer.  He says I’ve six months to a year with chemotherapy, three without.  I told him no chemotherapy.  There is no point to inflicting my trifling presence upon this Earth any longer than necessary.  Amelia would understand, I’m sure._

_I have things to explain to Sherlock; hopefully he will be released from rehab in time for me to do so.  I dare not go to him now, as my visit would only be detrimental.  I am, after all, one of the reasons he began using drugs._

_Of my sons, I worry for Mycroft most; ever since he was small, everyone has said that he takes after me.  I fear he does not understand how poor a role model I am.  Mycroft has my deliberation of thought and my tendency towards inaction, and these are the qualities that made me an old man whose life has accounted for nil._

The last paragraph nearly causes the diplomat to choke on his brandy.   He isn’t surprised that Sigur worried more about him than Sherlock, but he always thought that was because Sigur preferred him to Sherlock.  He goes to bed uneasy, still numb from his father’s words.

When he awakens the next morning, Mycroft is furious.  Sigur obviously suffered from a severe case of depression.  He refused to seek treatment because he worried that people would talk and that he’d be thought of as less of a man.  In refusing to get help, he essentially left his younger son an orphan and forced the elder to become a parent when he was still a child himself.  Mycroft curses Sigur for his foolish pride. Then he curses himself for not having seen the signs; in hindsight, Father's condition is obvious. If he'd said something, done something, perhaps some of the family’s suffering could have been alleviated.  Instead, Sigur was a failure as a parent and likely not much better as a husband.

 _(Of course, there’s only one person who can rate him as a husband, and she is unavailable for comment.)_   He wonders about Mummy’s role in this.  She was the one who encouraged Sigur to keep a diary.  Had she lived, would she have pushed him to seek treatment?  Would she have given him an ultimatum?  Would they have divorced?  Mycroft will never know.

The one thing – and there may only be one thing – that Sigur did well was his work.  He retired from the British Government three months ago, and Mycroft has recently been promoted into Sigur’s former department.  It seems that every day someone says, “You’re Sigur Holmes’ son?  Well, then, we expect great things from you, Mycroft.  Your father’s service to Britain was unsurpassed in his generation.”

 _(My career can be at least as successful as his.  He taught me everything he knew, and at the end of his career I began to surpass him.  I can excel. I can make him proud.  I can show him that he needn’t have worried about me.)_  It dawns on Mycroft that his teenage experience standing in for Father at parent-teacher conferences was invaluable in developing his diplomatic skills.   Father was only trying to avoid Sherlock – an impulse Mycroft understands better than anyone – but in avoiding his younger son, he unwittingly gave the elder the tools to outshine him.

Mycroft turns his attention to the velvet box on Father’s… no, _his_ , nightstand.  The wedding ring and the diaries are all Father left behind.   The diaries shall go in the library, but what to do with the ring?   Mycroft ponders Father’s final message and feels the way Ebenezer Scrooge must have felt after seeing the Ghost of Christmas Future.   He flips open the box and sighs.  _(Why on Earth did Father want me to have this?  He knew I have no prospects for marriage.  Perhaps he thought I’d give it to Sherlock, but while the savage bull may bear the yoke, Sherlock never will.  Sherlock… God.  Will he stop using drugs?  Will he get off the streets?  Will I ever see him again?)_

The diplomat stares morosely.  He pictures himself a married man.  When he was younger, he saw the idealized version of marriage: a doting wife and adorable well-behaved children.  Now he knows better: he’ll be distant, he’ll drive his wife away, and she’ll leave with the children, who will be prats.  They’ll grow up resenting him.  _(No.  I cannot allow myself to repeat Father’s mistakes._ _I shall never marry.)_

Sigur’s chief mistake, Mycroft realizes, was not that he cared too little.  It was that he cared too much.  Caring hadn’t saved Mummy or resurrected Sherrinford.  Caring about what other people thought had prevented Sigur from seeking the treatment he needed and made his life and the lives of his sons infinitely worse.  And caring about Sherlock Holmes… one need look no farther than Mycroft’s life to understand why _that_ is a bad idea.

People will always gossip about the reasons Mycroft is a bachelor.  Let them.  He was called a poofter often enough during school and it didn’t bother him aside from the fact that it wasn’t completely true.   _(Mummy never did understand why I hated it when Sherlock played “God Save the Queen.”)_  Carrying on the family name means little to him; “Holmes” is common enough, and perhaps Sherlock will have a child – legitimate or not – some day.  Remembering his Oxford days, Mycroft wonders if he has a few bastards of his own out there.  _(Their existence would make writing my will much more entertaining, but hopefully their mothers keep them away from me until they reach the age of majority.)_

The diplomat gazes at the ring once more.   Mycroft isn’t like his brother, who deletes anything he doesn’t find useful.  The elder Holmes believes that everything is useful, especially misery, and he’s certainly miserable now. 

He picks up the ring.  Father wore this every day for thirty-three years; even after Mummy died, he continued to wear it.  If one possession defined Father, this would be it.  If one thing serves as a reminder of everything Father was, and everything Mycroft hopes _not_ to be, this is it.  He tentatively slides it onto the ring finger of his right hand.  The ring fits perfectly, as if it’s always been there.

For the first time in weeks, the corners of Mycroft’s mouth turn up.  _(The sins of the father will not be laid upon the son.)_


End file.
